Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
A baby. I put a hand over my belly and look down, but of course, it doesn’t look any different than usual. That won’t come for a little while yet. Right now, to the rest of the world, I look like any average woman my age. My boobs are a little bigger, now that I think about it, but it’s not like that’s a telltale sign. Only when my bump starts to show will anybody be able to tell.
Like my husband, for instance.
A rush of cold fear washes over me, and for a second, I think I’m going to throw up again. But morning sickness isn’t why I’m feeling this way. I know it. It’s the thought of Enzo finding out.
Why can’t this just be normal? What’s so wrong with me that I don’t deserve the happiness, the joy of telling my husband we’re going to have a baby? Other people get to experience that kind of joy. Why can’t I? Why does every aspect of my life have to be so much harder than everybody else’s?
What happens when he finds out and doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore?
I’m ashamed of that thought, so ashamed I can’t look at myself in the mirror anymore. I turn my back on it, leaning against the vanity, folding my arms over my stomach and trembling. What am I supposed to do? How do I handle this? He’s frustrated that I’m not pregnant yet after all these weeks. I know that much from the almost mechanical way he takes me now. There’s not even lust involved anymore. It’s another task to get out of the way before he moves on to the next thing, and the thing after that.
But it will be even worse once he knows we’ve been successful. Even lonelier. What use will he have for me now when all that’s left for me to do is grow our baby, then hand it over to him after it’s born?
At least if it’s a boy. I’m not sure if I want it to be or not. I dread the idea of Enzo raising our child just as much as I ever did. This life growing inside me, if it is really there—and I’m pretty sure it is—deserves a chance. Not just his money, not just his name or his influence. They deserve a chance at a real life of being nurtured and loved. What could he possibly know about that?
How would I live with myself day after day, year after year, knowing I left my son with a man who will only screw him up?
And if it’s a girl? Will he even want to have anything to do with her? I’ve asked myself that question before so many times, but now it’s not hypothetical anymore. Everything feels a lot more real, and the stakes are higher than they’ve ever been.
I almost loathe the life growing in me. On the other hand, I love it. My baby, a piece of me. I wipe away a tear as it rolls down my cheek, still staring down at my flat stomach and knowing it won’t be that way for very long.
He’s going to get up eventually. I don’t want there being any evidence of my morning sickness for him to find later. I carefully clean the toilet before getting in the shower, and by the time I’m out and on my way back to my room, his bedroom door is open. He must have used another bathroom when he found me already using this one.
What am I supposed to do? The question plagues me as I go through the motions of getting ready for my day. I’m not even thinking about it, simply going from one step to the next. My mind may as well be a million miles away.
A baby. What am I supposed to do? What’s my move? If I tell him I’m pregnant, I doubt he’ll let me go to school. He probably won’t even let me out of the house, period. He’ll be too worried about something happening to me, keeping me safe, whatever he needs to tell himself as an excuse to control me. I don’t want that any more than I want him to ignore me sexually.
I don’t want to be without that. Even when he uses me and leaves me, it’s better than nothing. How am I supposed to live under the same roof with him knowing he’ll never touch me again?
I’m no closer to an answer by the time I walk slowly down the stairs. My feet are as heavy as my heart, which is filled with dread and doubt. What do I do? What’s the best thing for me, for my baby?
“Good morning.”
I almost drop my backpack on the floor at the sound of Enzo’s voice coming from the kitchen. He’s watching me, standing by the coffee maker. “Do you want a cup?”